


A breakfast to die for!

by MrUndisclosed



Category: Monster Prom (Visual Novel)
Genre: Just a daft thing about making breakfast, Mentions of drugs and drink and such like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2019-05-01 18:36:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14526678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrUndisclosed/pseuds/MrUndisclosed
Summary: Only like in this case...the breakfast has gotta die for someone to eat it?Polly is hungover and Oz has mad cures for such ailments.





	A breakfast to die for!

The sounds coming from Polly’s room are like death warmed over, chewed on and spit up on the rug by the most hungover cat to ever exist. Oz didn’t...get hung over. Maybe it was because Oz was thousands of tiny beings writhing in a toxic soup of madness, one seizing control for a time before being dethroned by another...and as such only some of him got fucked up on party liqueur made in a living demon toilet, while the rest was fresh as a daisy. 

Polly however was, last Oz checked, not thousands of beings in one body. But one singular ghost with a body she routinely put through hell and back again on a quest to get the most fucked up one could get. Last night she got about as fucked up as snorting a line of blessed cocaine off a mystical dream toad and then slamming said toad into a shot glass and pounding it back could get you.

A lot. A lot fucked up. In case you have less than 20 fun and have never experienced a classic Mr Toad’s Wild Ride, I can tell you it gets you fucked up. Oz, despite being an amalgam of horror, screaming and just a sprinkling of snuggles...decided to help a ghoul out.

She had, somehow, wound up back at their place and so Oz had all of their utensils to hand to make...Oz’s SIGNATURE BREAKFAST SANDWICH!

Two shadow buddies threw confetti in the air.

A guaranteed hangover cure taught to them by Juan,the small talking Latino cat. Juan learned it from an ancient warrior who claimed to be Don Quixote's best pal...or he was just some dude heavy into ren-fair. Regardless it was a good sandwich and it was designed to, if not fix a hangover then to at least drag that fucker into a corner and make it shut up for an hour or two.

Oz made their way into the kitchen and began to gather pots and pans. Each little drawer opening and clash of steel sounded like someone was shoving a jack hammer RIGHT into Polly’s brain meats and screaming “CAN YOU FUCKING HEAR ME NOW!?” as loudly as they could.

“UGHHHHHHHHHHHH.” Polly wailed, it was a great wail by ghostly standards and it had all the photos rattling around on the wall. At least three started bleeding from the eyes, a real wail. 

Oz set own the pans and skillets, coating a fine layer of oil over all of them and setting them to heat up. Hopefully the bubbling sounds wouldn’t have Polly screaming the place down again. While that happens Oz raids the fridge. Oz doesn’t eat but there’s nothing sadder than an empty fridge. Not a thing. Some chives, some eggs, some spam in a can and Sriracha sauce. 

A hangover fixer without spice is not worth eating and was forged by liars. Oz took the siracha and some mayo, dumping both into a bowl and attacking the mixture with a whisk. Sriracha and mayo might sound like those two estranged cousins who hate each other but really they’re more like incestous royals and should be mixed as often as possible. The mixture comes out looking like a faint pinky mixture which is perfect, so Oz let’s it sit to one side. Oil bubbles on the pans and he gets to work with the spam.

Spam or really spiced ham is the kind of food everyone has but only select people like. Hawaii loves it, it was the de-facto troop ration over there for so long that a lust for the stuff is just inherent in the island populace. Oz has never been to hawaii they just know this because someone told them this. Food is unique in that what is sustenance to others is a cultural landscape to many more. Spam isn’t what you’d call high class food, this stuff and roaches will be all that’s left to inherit the world when everyone dies from something current and political and make your own joke here about the state of the world.

This is a cooking story. 

So cook.

The eggs crack against the edge of the pan, some of the shell gets into the pan and Oz hisses as it vanishes under the whites. Ah well...a little crunch can’t hurt a ghost. With a fork he slices open the yolks and stirs it around a few times. They let it simmer and slices the chives nice a thin, tiny little sprigs of the stuff. The acidic taste will work with the yolk covered whites. The chives are tossed into the pan to sit on the eggs.

Oz plucks up the spam can, dozens of lil shadow buddies grow from their hand and pull it open. It’s tricky, lay off sometimes you need a hand or a few dozen. Spam is awkward to cook, not in that it’s hard but because honestly it’s more like pate than actual meat. Oz throws a few slices into the pan and lets them sizzle.

Polly is sure Oz is trying to kill them or like...double kill them or re-kill them. For what reason would you ever make such a racket. Polly floats up out of bed and grabs a baseball bat by the door. She’ll kill them, straight up. See how they like being an awful ghost. It’s then that a smell gets to her, breaking through the immense deposits of coke and blow that reside in her nostrils. Meat and eggs, the delicious smell of pan grease. 

She floats in, the only thing missing is big cartoony hands made of smoke dragging her along. She spies Oz setting a plate, a big sweet roll with crispy smoking spam to one side.

“Morning!” Oz says chipper, that kid had done nearly as many drugs as her but never seemed to notice. Polly would kill for that. “I’ve made Juan’s special Partyslut Eggstravaganza hangover cure.” Oz nods. 

“Slut eggs?” Polly asks blinking against the harsh light of the middle of the afternoon.Oz slathers a pink sauce against the bottom bun.

“Eggs for party sluts.” Oz elaborates in a way that explains nothing. “He named it, not me.” Oz shrugs and dumps four cuts of spam next to each other and lays four over top of that forming a spam net of glistening browned meat. 

“Heart of a poet.” Polly mutters floating above the ensemble. Oz slaps the eggs covered in chives on top of the spam and then tops that with some plants Polly knows nothing about. Which means it can’t be smoked or get you blitz’d. Polly only really knows about niche plants.

“A small cat but a big heart.” Oz turns the breakfast- for lunch- burger around to face Polly. “It’s a known hangover cure.” They tell her and she gestures to herself.

“Ghost homie.” She states. Oz nods and then gets out a gun and shoots the sandwich, twice in the back of the bread...execution style. “FUCK WASPS SHITTING IN MY BRAIN!” Polly screams at the sheer noise.

“Sorry I don’t have ears.” Oz states. “I have no idea how loud that is.”

“How do you even hear!?” Polly asks over the ringing and Oz gestures to the sandwich which was now rising up as a ghostly sandwich, complete with tiny sheet. Oz whipped the sheet away and lo there was a ghostly sandwich with a bullet-hole in it. Complete with tiny ghostly chains.

“Breakfast, for lunch, is served.” Oz says dodging the question with all the grace of a gymnast. Polly eats like a cartoon character, when she does eat. There’s a brief moment where the sandwich and plate and chains is there and a moment later it isn’t. Polly slurps down the last of the chains.

“You know chewing is a thing.” Oz tells her and Polly shrugs.

“Too hungover to chew. I mean what am I gonna do, choke?” Polly asks looking slightly more awake. “Man the bullet and gunpowder really gives it some pizzaz.”

“I bet that plate was full of...also essential vitamins.”

“NO DOUBT!” Polly tells Oz before floating up. “Right I am feeling 25% better and that was very delicious. Probably, my tongue feels like someone used it to lick broken glass last night.”

“You did.” Oz reminds her. “I have no idea why but I assume drugs were involved.”

“Or someone bet ten bucks I wouldn’t.” Polly says. “Ten buck bar bets are my religion, I died thanks to a ten buck bar bet.” 

“Why don’t you tell me about it?” Oz asks as they head for the door, Polly phases right through it. Leaning back in to nod.

“Oh yeah. Tell ya about it over drinks. Lots of drinks.” Polly bats her big eyes at Oz and like that Oz is already putty in her hands. “Trust me it’s worth it. It involves Yakuza, a grapefruit and trying to smuggle a panther into a movie theatre.”


End file.
